Before the song
by lithigia
Summary: Sometimes the song is good, sometimes the story behind it is even better. Although, to make a song, one sometimes must let out a few - meaningless - details, no? Yes. Yes, of course. (Not) a retelling of Origins, mostly Leliana's POV; with a few small, inconsequential secrets of her own. Prequel to "Unofficial". Rated T because, well, it's Dragon Age.
1. Pretty as a Painting

Disclaimer: the Dragon Age world doesn't belong to me

**Chapter One: Pretty as a Painting**

Mulling over a stout at Dane's Refuge was not an uncommon way for Leliana to spend an uneventful afternoon. This, however, was less of a casual circumstance, and the pensive wrinkles at the corners of her eyes gathered close with clock precision every time she rubbed the bridge of her nose, lost in thought. She weighed and measured for the hundredth time every word in the letter she'd written to Revered Mother Dorotheea. The letter had been due for a week.

Ostagar had fallen, that much was obvious, seeing the way that endless waves of refugees kept pouring from the south. Loghain had pulled out most of the army, one Chasind refugee had said, and that could easily be verified. Other than that, nothing was clear. Official news claimed the Wardens had betrayed the King, and then had all perished in battle.

In her letter, Leliana had added nothing more. Out of prudence, she decided against adding any of her personal take on the matter. Just as well, while sifting through the rumours for the umpteenth time, brazen thoughts reeled through her mind. Betrayed the king how, Leliana wondered, had all the Wardens sided with the Darkspawn at once, or, perhaps, with prior negotiations? Perished how, if not in straight battle? Had they fled the field in small groups and gotten themselves eaten by carnivorous flowers in the Korcari Wilds? All coming from a man that had emerged from the battle with his troops intact. The paradox of the scenario seemed lost on the simpletons who full-mouthedly spread the news, although everybody debated the subject at length over Maker knew how many stouts. Ale poured in Dane's Refuge, making the lack of food, sleep and coin, as well as the overall hopelessness of the situation, a little easier to swallow. But ale didn't favor reasoning, as the oozing fear that engulfed the place did not, and loss did not. They were eager to believe what was said without question.

A couple of days before, the army had come and gone, with not as much as an afterthought to help with the refugees; with the bandits and the cutpurses that flooded the roads; with the bears; with the wolves; with the giant spiders; with the Chasind; with the Qunari; with the lost children; with the lost crops; with the elder; with the lack of beds. They had, however, left behind five drunken sots that were cramming morosely at one of the tables in the middle, clutching a description poster and a pouch of coin, asking everybody who might answer about fugitive Grey Wardens. Wardens, again. Although her curiosity was piqued, Leliana hadn't written anything about them, either.

There was one more thing that Leliana had to write the Reverend Mother about: she had decided to leave the Chantry. It wasn't lack of gratitude: for the last couple of years, first in Denerim, then in Lothering, she had indeed found peace and shelter and had soothed her body and soul. Still, these were times one would find fitting to cover one's tracks and disappear forever, if one found herself in need to do so. Mother Dorotheea would understand. After all, it wasn't her the one Leliana hid from –the message between the lines was clear enough, Leliana thought. The Chantry spread high and wide throughout the land and Leliana was bound to check in every now and then, be within reach. She was not ungrateful. It was not like she was bending the truth much, also, in claiming that she'd had a vision; she'd had all kinds of disturbing dreams of late, and the rose that had blossomed in spite of war on what had seemed a long-withered bud had been a little miracle in its own right. One that spoke of a world of beauty, of the passing years, of wounds that opened, bled and closed, eventually. It told her it was time to get her life back.

Letter sealed in sleeve pocket, backpack on her shoulder, Leliana took one last sip of wine and rose. Time to go, she braced herself, eyeing the familiar tavern one last time.

Then the door swung open and the most unlikely bunch of people entered the place. A warrior, an elf, a witch and a war-dog. It was like in those funny little tales – "A warrior, an elf, a witch and a war-dog enter a tavern. The warrior asks for a table. The dog asks for a bone. The witch asks for a herb tea. The elf asks for a knife. The tavern keeper asks 'What do you need a knife for? You've got your ears…'". Hmm. Not so good of a joke. And the elf would most certainly not laugh. Perhaps she was a little bit out of touch. Leliana shrugged, before melting to shadow behind the strangers.

The soldiers at the table in the middle rose and drew steel, asking surrender from the Grey Wardens.

_Grey Wardens?_ 'Keep an eye on the Wardens' Mother Dorotheea had said in her last. It had been before Ostagar, but that mattered little. If she wanted to ever learn what had happened she needed to speak with them.

But not at once. Maybe she could gain their trust. Maybe she could travel with them, at least for a while. Mother Dorotheea would be happy to know their whereabouts. Leliana was thinking fast. Yes, travelling with them seemed the best idea. Maybe the rose had indeed been a sign, after all. She stepped out in the open again, right between the two groups.

'Rusty.'

Leliana was angry with herself. It hadn't gone well at all. First, the soldiers had shown no sign of respect for the cloth – that had been unexpected, as well as their proneness to kill everyone without blinking. Then, there was the _elf._

The damned knife-ears had fought Loghain's men like a banshee, 'happy to oblige' as she'd put it. Slim and small, with rueful black hair under a helmet only too big for her head, with mismatched, poor quality leathers and only slightly better weapons, she'd measured Leliana from head to toe, obviously suspicious of this, or any, Maker-given ally. Insisting that she spare the soldiers' lives hadn't helped either. The soldiers were to be shown no mercy; they had to die. 'Happy to save your life, miss', she'd added, and Leliana'd got flustered and retorted, snapping at the girl's cheeky smirk and piercing, yellow, inhuman gaze. Maker, she was so _young, _she'd realized only after; just a girl, indeed, and the realization gave pause to the annoyance. Couldn't expect manners from a _child, _no? She'd better tried a different angle. Especially since the tall blonde knight and the Chasind shaman witch seemed to look to _her_ for a decision.

Kallian was the name. Other than admitting to be one of them Wardens, she gave away little, while shoving questions about Leliana's ways and motivations, pinning her with her eyes, weighing her with her elven, long-eared head thoughtfully tilted to the side. Leliana had not prepared. She turned to the rehearsed scenario, saying she had been sent by the Maker, that she'd had a vision, but, oh, just as well, she could see how the three in front of her were exchanging _looks_. Rusty Leliana. This was a story for the Chantry sisters, not for fighters freshly returned from Ostagar. She changed gear, speaking of how the people would suffer and fighting the blight was the Maker's work. Some new light glistened in the elf's eyes, and it seemed that she'd struck the chord. The elf kept asking her questions, about what she, Leliana, could do for them, about helping people there and then, and Leliana obliged patiently. But the glitter grew and turned to smirk as the elf said her last. They didn't need any help. At all. It had been _amusement, _that glitter, she realized, much too late… They hadn't intended to take her with them for a bit.

Oh, sod. This wasn't the last they heard from her. Rusty, but still. Leliana turned on her hills and out of Dane's Refuge in a storm.

A couple of hours later, she was strategically posed on the side of the road out of town, nibbling at a bit of dry cheese, comfortably seated at one end of the meadow that stretched from the mill to the path that led to the Imperial Highway. If the Wardens wanted to leave Lothering any time soon, they were bound to come her way. It was sunny, and the world seemed friendly enough - if one could count out the bandits lurking behind the hills and the famished farmers that were gathering near the mill, the quiet chatter of whom sounded menacing after a fashion. They were conniving about something, surely. She'd see about that later. Now, she was busy waiting.

And there they were, the Wardens, the witch and the dog, purposely striding across the meadow, with all their gear packed on their backs. The farmers gathered and huddled around the small party. One of them, a leader of some sort, exchanged a few snapped words with the elven Warden. Then, they attacked. By the Maker, that came as a surprise, but it was far from Leliana's mind to interfere this time. The Wardens fell back, retreating on the higher ground of the mill, reluctant to fight at first, it seemed. They fought their way through, though, without honor, crushing bones and men in their stride, until there was no one other standing but them and their own. Then, they took pace again.

The two Wardens seemed to disagree on something. The elf seemed annoyed, indeed, as she smashed her mismatched – and ruined without hope at the point, apparently - helmet to the ground. Better without, it hadn't suited her anyway, Leliana found herself thinking, she had nice features. It was easy to fall back on frivolous thoughts once outside the Chantry, it seemed. She giggled to herself.

The wind caught some of the heated conversation as the small group headed towards her.

"… I thought you were all for leaving this place…" the tall, blond man was saying.

"Yea, well, look around you. Don't you feel bad in the slightest?"

"You tell me about feeling bad? I'm fazed… Plus, _they_ attacked _us._"

"We just killed more than a dozen able men. They could have provided for their families, protected them on the road… they could've fought and hunted and gotten their own to safety."

"You have no qualms to steal an expensive sword from an innocent errand boy, but you give coin to beggars – and now you worry upon a bunch of peasants set on murdering us for money."

"Did I look like a messenger to you? Did I? An elf can't afford to be _that_ stupid."

"Oh, now you're telling me you were _educating _the boy…"

The elf waved her hand dismissively.

"You wouldn't understand. He's probably dead now, anyway, with all the others."

That made the blond man quiet for a moment. Then he spoke again.

"You're a strange one…"

She chuckled.

"Hunger is strange, not me. It's one thing to be young and easily fooled, and to be fully-grown and charge unarmed at armored and armed people and mages, quite another. Spells despair to me. That, and we could use some money ourselves."

The argument seemingly finished, they arrived at the cozy spot that Leliana had claimed for herself.

"Oh, hello again!" she chanted, feigning obliviousness both in regard to the gore that the Wardens were covered in and the conversation that she'd overheard.

"Sister."

She didn't do better this time. In fact, she was sure that her lengthy pleas were even lamer that the first. Yet the Wardens seemed more subdued, without any apparent reason. The blond one cracked a really stupid joke and the elf laughed in exasperation, only to copiously start coughing blood and black clots, sign that the wound was rather old, more than a day perhaps. Leliana had no healing potion on her, so she absentmindedly offered her waterskin, half filled with thoroughly watered-down cheap wine from the Dane's Refuge, her drink for the road. She did it without thinking, only because the other seemed to need something to wash the taste of blood in her mouth, and the elf accepted it likewise, with no fuss. She thrown her head back and took a big gulp, careful not to touch the waterskin with her lips. She spat, snorted and coughed again before handing it back to Leliana and thanking with a nod.

"You can come," she said, not really letting go of the waterskin as she looked Leliana straight in the eye. Leliana wanted to thank them all profusely for taking her along, as well as to assure them that she wouldn't be a burden, but she was cut before she made a sound. "- Just, keep your mouth shut."


	2. Lamb

**Disclaimer: **Dragon Age world doesn't belong to me.

AN: A bit of a short chapter here, not much action, only to flesh up the characters a little. Thank you all who follow this story, and I hope you'll enjoy.

**Chapter 2 – Lamb**

They had chased after bandits all afternoon.

Leliana was staring pensively in the crackling fire. It was evening now, the third day in a row that they were working to clear Lothering from thugs, and every bit of her body hurt from the exertion – neck, shoulders, ribs, thighs – even her toes hurt, not to mention the seething punctured blisters in her smooth palms; she knew they would turn into protective calluses eventually, as before, but it wasn't yet the case. Not that she minded, really; she welcomed all of it, as well as the wholesome sensation that she was more alive than ever, and free, and… of course it all had an undergoing darker taste, but she wasn't ready to go there just yet.

She stretched her legs towards the embers, to gather more warmth. It had been a good day; not exactly from the start. They had met their first group of outlaws just a stone's throw from where she'd waited for the Wardens to appear – amazing, really, she'd never thought they'd been that close to Lothering all that time. The Wardens' small party had been seriously outnumbered; three to one had never been optimistic odds for anyone, as far as Leliana knew, and when the mabari dogs had burst and charged, well…

She had little experience against war-dogs and it had seemed to her that Kallian and Alistair (that was the other Warden's name) had been in need of help; she renounced the bow in favor of her enchanted dagger quickly and jumped into the melee, leaving only the witch behind. In no time, she found herself on the flat of her back, overwhelmed by a drooling mabari, staring up close into its razor-sharp teeth. Kallian had kicked at its muzzle only a glimpse before its biting an undoubtedly huge hole in her face; Alistair had bashed it with his shield; in the end, it had been Con, Kallian's war-dog, that got the beast off her, allowing her to get up and recollect. By then, Kallian was way ahead, striving to engage the three still standing archers all at once, in a fraught attempt to keep them from raining arrows on the rest of them. Of course she'd lasted one small minute only, before collapsing with a gaping wound in her side, but that minute had gained them the occasion to finish the dogs and move forth towards the archers, which they had.

Alistair had helped Kallian to her feet. She'd suggested going back to town, for Kallian to patch her wound. The elf had jerked her chin up and stated tersely that the sun was still up, obviously not content to cut their work-day short. The witch had pulled two arrows from her back and wrought some healing magic that she hadn't seemed much adept at. Kallian had measured Leliana from head to toe. "I don't have eyes in the back, you know." She'd seemed quite cross. "I must know where you are on the field. Stick to that bow."

Pfft. She'd been quite right, of course, and well within the right to say it, as she had taken most of the brush and bruise of Leliana's mistake, but that hadn't made the reprimand less annoying. While climbing the windmill mound afterwards, trying to spy the whereabouts of other bandits, Leliana had been simmering inside.

"I'll wager you a mug of ale they're in that corn field," Kallian had announced, and she'd huffed her disaproval. The elf had noticed, surprisingly, and had turned an eye towards her "I didn't mean to offend, Sister. In the Chantry you don't wager, no?" Leliana's temper had demeaned on spot. "Only beads and beans, generally" she'd offered, and it had gained her a sideways smile form the elf.

"Alright then, let's weed them out!" Kallian had said, and gotten out a neat shortbow that she'd nocked at once. Leliana had followed suit, and soon enough, indeed, a couple of annoyed bandits had emerged from the corn field. Leliana afforded to watch the Warden shoot for once. "You're lame with that, you know?" she'd said, not entirely forgiving for the moment before. The Warden merely grinned. "Well, it's good that you're not, then. Keep shooting." She'd then discarded the shortbow and had drawn her sword and dagger, falling behind the outlaws that her mabari had engaged fully. Then everything started to work for them, as the well-oiled wheels of a complex device. Con engaged them, grinding at their thighs and hands; Kallian danced behind them, stabbing at the weak spots of their armor; Alistair acted the defender, mashing and shoving the ones trying to flank back in the crowd between the Warden and the dog. The witch, Morrigan, danced in small steps to the side, seemingly always finding the best angles to cast her spells, and Leliana kept shooting. "I think we work well together" Alistair had shouted at some point, and that had nailed it; it was obvious that they each had found their pace and place within the whole. Afterwards, they had all given in to the bloodlust and merriment of the chase.

The loot was good, including a full set of steel chainmail that had Alistair fully equipped; an odd assortment of maces, bows and daggers that could fetch more than a few coppers, and Kallian's eyes had glittered at the stash that they were going to sell the next day, when they would go to collect their pay from the Chantry's board; some amount of coin; and some good leathers that Kallian had insisted on her to take, for which she felt all guilty. None of them knew she had her old battledresss stashed at the bottom of the backpack – a piece of armor that was worth more than all that they had in money and equipment, a piece of armor that she wasn't ready to don just yet; the piece of armor that she had worn only once before, when she'd gotten chasing after _her._ It brought bad memories, even bad luck, perhaps.

The fire crackled merrily, denying further pretext to melancholy. They'd camped right out of town, and it was a fine night to see the stars, if one felt so inclined. Lothering was filled to the brim, and it was better this way, they had all decided, anyway. They'd copiously dined on staked hare with herbs and some sweet corn they'd snatched from an abandoned barn, a luxury that wasn't at the hand of most law abiding townsfolk. This rogue life, it felt good. Now, Kallian was coming to the fire, fetching a bottle of wine and a few cups. She'd first stopped by the spot where Alistair was meticulously polishing his sword, most likely asking him to join. It seemed that he refused.

"I think I need a favor."

Never refuse and never commit. That was one of the first things that Leliana had learned, even before her time as a bard. Being a bard had only taught her how to do it better.

"By all means, tell me what I can do for you," she said, voluble.

"Huh." Kallian seemed to ponder whether the matter at hand was important enough for her to take a seat by the fire or sufficed a brief introduction. She seemed to finally decide on the latter.

"It's Alistair. He's lost his mentor, and the closest one friend that resembled a father, back at Ostagar. I knew him – Duncan, his name was – only briefly; I said to Alistair so much, and all else that I could think of, but he's still…"

"Hurting?" she provided, solicitously.

"That too. Also, a bit off in regard to his own survival in battle. A bit careless."

"And, you want me to go and speak with him…"

"Well. I was thinking, with you being a Sister and all…"

With her being a Sister and all. The wording annoyed Leliana. With her being a Sister and all she couldn't even soothe her own mind. And she wasn't a Sister, not really, not any more. What did the elf expect, that she'd go on a limb and tell a stranger that the Maker wanted him to do so-and-so? Hurts of the soul needed time to heal. If this girl was looking for spiritual guidance, she would have to seek it elsewhere.

The elf was sizing her up, quite apprehensively. Leliana felt bad for her bitter thoughts.

The Warden was by all means committed to make them all feel at ease, from what little Leliana had gathered so far. She'd been making a purpose of speaking with each of them a bit every evening, even the Qunari, even the barbarian witch. Making them talk about subjects that they held most dear, agreeing with them when possible without lying. She'd even gotten her to tell a story by the fire the other night. Not that Leliana could find a fault in _that_.

"Come, sit with me a bit," she offered, and the elf obliged with a shrug.

"So, what do you think?" Leliana probed, gesturing towards the other Warden.

"I get him. Only," the elf offered a crooked smile, "I am not at my best myself."

"Oh?" Leliana raised an eyebrow. "Have you come to talk about him, or yourself?"

The look in Kallain's eyes might have meant anything from pure spite to mere irony. Leliana couldn't tell. Those big, strange eyes of elves were only half readable even for her – and this one hid hers quickly.

"No. Nothing of the sort. I just thought that maybe you had some notion about what's to be done." She made a frown and a move to rise from the log they shared. "Thank you anyway."

Honey worded, guarded and with a grudge against humans, maybe? In Val Royeaux there was little difference between elf and human commoner; they would converse, drink stout together, even share a bed sometimes – of course there were jabs and jokes like everywhere, but everyone took them with a grain of salt. In Ferelden, though… Leliana had never been to an Alienage. It would have been bad judgment to let that sort of grudge set root against her.

"Wait." Leliana treaded carefully. "It's not my place to pry. I just thought - he may feel offended simply that I know his grief. But if you want to cheer him up a bit, I can come with. If you want."

"Good." The elf's was a genuine smile this time.

It was not easy to brighten up a man who sat in gloomy silence polishing an already conspicuously sharp sword. They each took a spot at his side and remained quiet for a while, except for the rhythmic wishh-woshh of the whetstone on metal.

Leliana had some tricks up her sleeve, but she didn't dare show off too much. There was one trick, however, which never failed her, no matter the role she had to play or the purpose; it gave her the upper hand in conversation and the advantage of surprise, it forced the other to answer true and pay less attention to detail, while not taking her all too seriously. She called it "say-whatever-nonsense-crosses-your-mind".

"So, Alistair, what was that …soup you made for supper last night?"

Kallian's eyebrows arched high, but Alistair jumped to answer.

"Did you like it?"

Succes. Leliana couldn't hold a wink.


	3. City Elf

_Disclaimer: _the Dragon Age world doesn't belong to me

* * *

**Chapter Three: City Elf**

Crouching on the bank of a quick stream that clunked merrily down from the Hinterlands, Kallian was striving to catch some dinner, in the form of slippery trout. She seized the fish bare-handed and pulled them quickly from the water, snapping their heads on a nearby rock. It was a crude way of doing things, but it didn't damage blades nor require arrows; plus, it was far more productive than hunting game for someone as unknowing of the wild as herself. It was mostly Morrigan who brought red meat to their small camp, not that it was unexpected, and Sten also knew his way around. The rest of them were pretty useless in this regard, even Con the dog, who managed to scare each and all living soul in a distance of several feet before making the slightest move to pounce, when he set to hunting.

One. Two. Five. Seven - eight. Nine – ten. Twelve. She spiked them as they came on a long stick, propped by the nearest tree. She couldn't hunt, but she was quick of hand enough to gather dinner even in this foreign forest weeks away from home. Satisfied, she seated herself on a boulder, trying to catch the day's last rays of sun. Big mistake.

She'd held out good for the last month-and-a-half or so. She hadn't had a choice. Regardless, her eyes kept fatally sliding towards east, to Denerim, where her family was. She hoped they were well.

Her thoughts drifted towards the man she'd met briefly, who with she'd been supposed to settle herself in marriage; an unknown – a man who'd given his life for her within three hours since they'd met. What kind of man was that? She thumbed the ring that she'd taken from his dead body, which now rested on her left hand, and studied it, as if for the first time. It was well-made and with a good eye for detail – two stripes of metal linked together with small bracers under fire and hammer, carefully polished and trimmed – a wedding band, which he'd made for his unknown bride. She would she'd known him.

Shianni – damaged; Soris – married. Her father, sheltering another girl in her stead in the house. She, Kallian, barely escaped from the gallows, only to fall upon a disenchanted battle between man and man, human against human, while everybody'd been bloody gone out of their way to pretend they'd been fighting the enemy of all that lived and was holy – Darkspawn. Herself, changed by the Joining, condemned until the very end to feel them in her veins, to hear and gauge them and _know_. Once the gallows, once the joining, once a battle without odds, if someone had told her two months ago that she'd cheat death trice before the end of the year, only to land worse than before each time, she'd told them they'd gone barking.

The grass was swishing in the back. There was no noise of steps to go with the swishing, so, naturally, it had to be the – well, sneaky – Sister that she'd agreed to take along on a whim. Although Alistair was wrong and the fact that her ears - oversized even for an elf - couldn't hear the woman's footsteps, spelled more of "stabbity-stabbity" than of pretty colors, she knew there was skill there and a good mind to go with; although, which skills, it boggled the mind to merely fathom.

She could wager all her money that the Sister had a perfectly reasonable reason to be exactly there at that exact given time; indeed, as she came closer, Kallian could see the neat bundle of cloth with a soap bar on top, which the Sister was carrying high above the head for all the world to see. Slippery as trout, that one. The way she fought. The stories she told. The "vision". The way she'd handled Alistair a couple of nights before. Still, she had been in the Lothering Chantry for the last two years, Kallian had checked before allowing her to come. Did the Chantry have spies? Kallian frowned. Perhaps she was worrying for nothing. Perhaps the Sister was honest about her intention to fight the Blight. Merely a woman with a past. She was not to hold that against her.

"Are you quite alright?"

Kallian frowned. She'd lost sight of the Sister but for one minute.

"Yes. Just – heading back with these." She waved the makeshift pike full of fish to confirm her words, sporting what she thought would pass as a confident grin. "Why?"

"You have…" – the Sister gestured towards her face, as if tracing tears.

Kallian mirrored her, and, to her surprise, she found her cheeks profusely wet, indeed. She flushed and frowned again; clearly, she did not remember shedding any tears – but there they were. She wiped her cheeks awkwardly, sure that she'd left a trail of dirt behind.

"Oh. Err. I didn't –" she breathed, trying to decide what to say next – "Must be the lack of sleep."

"Must be?" A pair of red eyebrows darted to the sky, doubtful and ironic.

"Well, yes. It must be. I'm a city elf, you see. Grew in an Alienage. Used to sleep with all my family in one room, in the city, behind walls. The noises of the forest keep me awake all night."

Kallian spoke quickly, earnest not to leave the wrong impression. Moreso since the awkward conversation they'd had a night before – the human had seemed very interested in her private state of mind. It was the plain truth though, Darkspawn nightmares aside. But that was a _Warden_ thing, like a whole lot of other nuisances that she couldn't freely talk about. Like hunger, for one.

Like this. The nausea had never really left her since the Joining – it wasn't strong, she could forget all about it for hours on end if she had enough things to busy herself with, but if she remembered and looked for it, or only thought of Darkspawn, it was there, gnawing at the back of her skull, clear as day or a blighted headache. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the sensation, but it didn't give. She could even hear whispers rising from somewhere behind her ears. Sod.

It was the first time when she could really sense them. Alistair had said that it would come in time, and there it was. There they _were_. Kallian jumped to her feet, brushing aside the hand that had just landed on her shoulder – an attempt at comfort, perhaps. But this wasn't such a time.

"You. Up that tree, now."

The whispering came closer. Kallian listened hard, trying to figure where they were; how many; where they went. No luck. She could only reason that there had to be several of them, perhaps strong, with one or two Alphas or an Emissary. She doubted she'd have felt them otherwise.

"Up, up. They're almost here – take the fish," she pushed at the Sister, who had frozen in place.

Finally, the woman was moving. Kallian shoved up the tree her shortbow and the dozen arrows that she'd brought with, then jumped to catch the lowest branch and heave herself up too.

"There." The Sister's whisper trembled a bit. They had encountered Darkspawn before, but Kallian had to own they were a sight each time. And - the stench.

"Remind me never to leave camp without handbombs," she blew back, squinting in a fruitless attempt to count and size up the enemy.

The Genlocks were almost always hiding in the shadows. She spied two, but they could be a dozen. A couple of Hurlock foot soldiers followed into the clear, thoroughly trudging under the tree; their leaders were nowhere to be seen – keeping back, perhaps, preparing an ambush. Kallian suspected an emissary; Alphas simply charged.

She had to lure them out at some point. But first things first. She threw a trout outright in the face of one Hurlock. It hollered and bared its teeth, while the other started to bash his sword and shield together menacingly. And true enough, answer came from the side. Two other genlocks rendered themselves visible, and also did the emissary, in the way of a sparkling green ball that sizzled on the first Hurlock's skin, enraging it.

Kallian shoved the shortbow into the Sister's hands.

"Don't shoot 'til they're caught up with me."

"You have a plan?"

"None whatsoever."

... ...

"Show off," Leliana muttered to herself while nocking an arrow and sizing up the small elf Warden, who was taking a fighting stance down by their refuge tree, clad in shirt and trews and armed with something that looked just a bit more menacing than a sturdy kitchen knife.

The Darkspawn spotted the Warden. They drew blade, howled and spat, howled again, then took charge like one. The Warden weighed them calmly, giving away no sense of fear, waiting. Then the Warden ran.

She ran like a zigzagging scared rabbit, all over the tall grass, dodging the emissary's spells only just. Leliana found herself holding a breath in the realization that the spawn were closing in – more, it seemed they had cornered her, pushing towards the end of the glade, where the creek was turning into a chute, as the soft ground was giving way to an edgy cliff, spiked and unfriendly.

Without warning, Kallian plunged on the side only feet away from the sheer drop. Two faster genlocks in the front fell over, beyond any reasonable possibility of stopping; a third managed to wobble precariously on the edge before the others pushed it down, too. Leliana seized the moment and released the arrow that she'd held ready for some time right in the nape of the following Hurlock, which was all it took to send it flying with his comrades, as Kallian hamstrung the last genlock and sprung up. Leliana felt a jab of hope – perhaps Kallian was able to get them out of this, after all.

But that was that for the small, unarmored rogue. She took a disorient spell full-power, right in the chest, and the shield bash of the Hurlock sent her flying. Leliana thought she heard the familiar sound of bones cracking from where she hid, which was some considerable distance, and, next, the Hurlock was zooming in with the tip of his sword pointed down, ready to finish the job. Leliana released two quick-shots, trying to rile the beast and take it off Kallian, but no such luck. She'd always preferred the long-bow; what it lacked in accuracy she could make up for, but its range and power were something that no skill could compensate. Unfortunately, she'd left hers at camp. As she hurriedly nocked a third arrow, the branch she used for support caught fire. The emissary had apparently taken more interest in her endeavors than the Hurlock, and Leliana fell in an entanglement of branches and burning leaves.

The clearing filled at once with shouting and growling. As Leliana lay in the tall grass trying to catch her breath, she heard Alistair's battle cry and some encouraging barking arose from the side. Her eyes were watering from the smoke, and she couldn't see any sky or branches or leaves above. A cool breeze was surrounding her, though, quite pleasant in a sort of way, and her clothes were covered in a thin hoar layer. Perhaps Morrigan had worked one of her ice spells to quell the fire.

The first gulp of air came in sour and choky. Leliana managed up on her feet and wobbled towards the place Kallian had fallen. Not good.

"If I pull it out, it will break the collar bone," Alistair was saying. Morrigan scoffed as per habit and left to take a look at the Emissary's staff. Con the dog was nudging the still hand of her mistress with some worry.

"Get it out, will you? I can't lie here all day…" Kalian had come to her senses, and was bossing everyone around, as per habit.

Alistair fidgeted and paced around, and Leliana finally got a view of the problem – a Darkspawn sword was pinning Kallian down, going obliquely through the right shoulder and deep into the ground. The job didn't promise to be clean.

"Alistair. Just pull it out." The voice sounded more resigned than anything else.

"Right. Riight."

Alistair propped himself above the elf, with one foot on each side of her body and made to grab the hilt with both hands. He'd barely touched it, though, when Kallian yelped curtly and her head slid senseless to the side. Leliana found it was the time to intervene.

"It's fine, Alistair. She just passed out. You just think of the blade, I'll hold her shoulders. She won't feel a thing."

... ...

She was fine. In her own tent, in the friendly darkness spiked with long, yellow tongues of light from the campfire, hearing the merry chatter of the others, Leliana's sing-song laughter – that was fine; it was good. Kallian dared to take a deeper breath; it didn't hurt. Or, not much. Her right arm was packed in a sling close to her chest. The wraps seemed sturdy enough. She shifted a bit, then decided to adventure further. She needed to get some food soon, anyway. Or not. After some hapless struggle she somehow managed to wrap herself in a shirt after a fashion, but the hosepipes were a nightmare. If only she could bend enough – or lift her knees high enough, it didn't matter which – to get her feet through_._ But _no_. After all the strain, she simply managed to roll to the side and land on her right shoulder. Hard. She bit her lip to keep silent, but some hideous half-hissing half-groan still got away. The chatter outside fell quiet.

"Sod." She lay on the flat of her back, no closer to the purpose of getting dressed and out than ever, the peace in her aching bones long gone.

"Sod-sodding-sod."

Her bowels growled in response.

It seemed she wasn't allowed more time to wallow in her misery. A head appeared at the entrance of her tent, and Kallian fumbled to cover both her body and the crude remnants of her lost battle with a pair of pants.

"Sister."

"Do you think you can eat? I brought you some fish soup – Alistair said you might…"

Kallian took a breath and rose.

"Yea. Sure." The spiced broth smelled maddeningly. She took the bowl in a hurry and barely remembered to add a mumbled "Thank you." Then she realized she could only use one hand. Particularly, the one that was holding the bowl. She wasn't exactly keen to let the human see her bury her whole face in soup, as the case well seemed to be. So she stalled.

"Let me hold that for you," the Sister said.

"No. I can manage."

"You'll make a mess."

The human's eyebrows were risen with only a hint of challenge – and that was strange, as Kallian noticed, because her eyebrows were all but gone; probably from the Emissary's flames. Her hair seemed shorter, too. She too had no business to be up and about, after the evening's mishaps, let aside looking after others. Kallian handed the bowl back and started to eat, grateful all of a sudden.


End file.
